


𝜍 𝑐 𝑟 𝜀 𝛼 𝑚

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Assault, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Damaged Vocal Cords, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23660428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: As many times as Malcolm had shouted himself awake every morning, he lay awake at night wondering that if he were in imminent danger, would he instinctually scream?For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Damaged Vocal Cords.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 72
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	𝜍 𝑐 𝑟 𝜀 𝛼 𝑚

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Atomrealm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atomrealm/gifts).



As many times as Malcolm had shouted himself awake every morning, he lay awake at night wondering that if he were in imminent danger, would he instinctually scream?

Or would he succumb?

If someone attacked anyone on the team, he'd fight back in an instant.

If he got attacked, would he stand his ground?

Or would he go quietly?

Not a sound.

Dead.

He liked to imagine he would fight for his life. But those were thoughts, not actions.

Would he think _stop!, help!_ , but not say it?

The ramifications were dangerous.

It kept him awake, plotting out when he should scream. At the beginning of an attack, _no, stop!_ Once he needed to defend, _help!_ But no matter how many times he repeated the words in his mind, they weren’t convincing.

Cornered, there might only be whimpering.

Trapped with his cyclical thoughts against his pillow, nightmares pulled him under.

He woke with a start, a violent shout pinning the top of the morning. Every day, the same ending and beginning.

* * *

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Malcolm returned, taking his cup of coffee out of the café.

Two sips in, the dark roast brew evoked smoky molasses, maybe a hint of caramel. Not a favorite, but it’d do to give him an extra kick to get going. His feet propelled him toward the precinct, his head rotating through alternatives of what piece of the profile he’d work on first — past history, last known whereabouts, common behaviors — landing on common behaviors. They already knew enough about the killer's last actions.

His hands moved back and forth with his considerations. Sip — why had the victim experienced a clash of aggression and care? Why was all of his jewelry left behind, his watch intact at a quarter past eight and ticking forward? Why —

His shoulder bumped into a man, sending his coffee splattering out onto the concrete in a chocolate Rorschach. A package dropped between them, dumping pill bottles that rolled into the side street.

Before Malcolm could make out what the pills were or pick up the man’s box, a burly arm thrust him into the brick wall of the building, his back clunking half on the brick, half on the plywood paneling underneath construction scaffolding. The forearm shifted, pinning him down at the neck, the other fist pummeling into his torso in a staccato lick.

What was going on? His throat hitched, it was hard to take in air, his tendons strained as he couldn’t move, he couldn’t —

The fist blasted his ribs, an awful thud of a crunch ricocheting up to his head. His face became the target next, a rip of a ring across his cheekbone toward his nose that left blood trailing to his teeth. Coppery tinge crept to his tongue, giving him a taste of danger.

His head throbbed from the hit against the brick, a flurry of signals shooting from his body to his brain, messages screaming pain, pain, _pain_ —

“Hfgh,” he tried to breathe, get some sort of space to interpret what was happening.

The fist met his ribs again, and the fire burst into the loudest roaring scream he’d ever belted, “ _Ahhhhhhhh!_ ” Tripped a switch fury melted and couldn’t turn back off. “ _Help! Help!_ “ his panicked voice shouted, his arms starting to struggle to fight back.

Malcolm thrust a knee up between them, and his arms flew at the man’s head in practiced hooks. It was a tossup whether his fists or voice were wailing more, drawing on his training to defend himself. Scream — protect — disarm — distance. 

Protect, protect, _protect_ — Malcolm’s swings continued, but only met air. The weight across his throat disappeared, the fist no longer clobbered his middle, the wall of a man was gone in front of him. 

But Malcolm’s garbled screech still remained. “ _Help me! Help! I need help!_ “

He dropped without the pressure pinning him to the wall holding him up. A heap of bent legs, skinned knuckles, and blood dripping from his face, all curled around his battered middle.

“ _Help! Help! Help!_ “ he maintained his screaming, a broken record skipping on repeat.

A hand touched his shoulder. “An ambulance is coming.”

He shrugged the hand away. “ _Help!_ “

* * *

Malcolm was close enough to work that Precinct 16 got called out. Tolson took one look at him and made a specific call for backup while Burrows stayed with the downed assailant that had been held in place by an onlooker until police arrived.

Gil knelt on the ground in front of Malcolm, a paramedic on the other side of him looking at his fingers without touching. Malcolm’s head was curled into his knees, his arm wrapped around his stomach, his grey suit jacket covered in dust and drops of blood. Gil rested his hand on Malcolm’s back and offered, “I got you, kid.”

“I-I called for help,” Malcolm’s voice was beyond hoarse, coming out in strained rasps.

Gil rubbed the back of his neck. “You did, you did — I’m so proud of you.”

“I called for…help,” Malcolm reiterated, tacking it on another half-dozen times for good measure.

“I’m here,” Gil promised. “You’re safe now.”

The paramedic tried to get a look at Malcolm’s ribs again, but he held himself tighter and hissed before she even lifted his shirt. “Sir, any help you can give us — we really need to get him to the ER,” the paramedic directed to Gil, the only person who had been able to make sustained physical contact with him.

“Bright, we’re gonna get you to the hospital, okay?” Gil soothed, speaking clearly near his ear.

“H _elp_ ,” his voice came out more like a gasp.

“I’m gonna pick you up, and you’re gonna have a seat on a gurney.” Gil looked at the paramedic across from him, trying to be of some assistance to get him where he needed to go. “It’s only a short ride to the hospital — you know.”

The two paramedics got the stretcher ready, and Gil lifted Malcolm’s crumpled form from the ground under his knees and across his back. “Ahhh,” a sharp, crackled moan escaped Malcolm’s chest.

Gil set him on the gurney, and the paramedics immediately started to move him. “You’ve done so well, Bright. A few more minutes and you’ll be more comfortable,” Gil assured, following after.

The second ambulance left, trailing the first to the hospital.

* * *

Cracked ribs, swollen face, and plenty of marbled bruises, nothing was severe enough to keep Malcolm in the hospital. He went home with an order of rest for his overused vocal cords and instructions to follow up with his primary care physician if his voice hadn’t returned to normal by the next week.

It was a quiet drive in Gil’s car, Malcolm curled up against the window. When they got to Malcolm’s loft, he ambled out, slowly making it up the stairs and straight into his bed, resting against the headboard, discarding his shirt to the side and leaving a hearty collection of deep purple bruises on display.

Gil set Malcolm’s suit jacket on a hook inside the door, toed off his shoes, and pulled the side chair over beside Malcolm. “Can I get you anything to make things more comfortable?” Gil asked.

Malcolm shook his head.

“You not speaking for a few days, that’s kinda weird,” Gil joked, trying to break the ice.

“Little bit,” Malcolm returned, his voice breathy.

“Let me do the talking?” Gil instructed, more a question than a statement.

Malcolm shrugged. He pushed at his face, tracing the line of a cut, feeling where the bruising ended and turned back into uninjured skin somewhere in his beard.

“Should see the other guy,” Gil commented.

“Is he okay?” Malcolm asked, shifting his puffy eye toward Gil.

Gil ran his socked foot back and forth along the side of the bed, the movement making its way to Malcolm as a soothing gesture. “Broken nose. Concussion. He’ll be fine and on his way to DOC,” Gil assured, putting his foot back on the floor. “Assault and battery and possession of a large amount of oxy.”

“Dumb reason to jump me — ” Malcolm complained and stopped talking when his throat clenched in protest.

“Tea or something?” Gil offered, leaning forward in his chair.

Malcolm shook his head and moved to clip in his wrists. Coming down from the adrenaline, panic, and disorientation from defending himself, his eyelids drooped in exhaustion.

“I’ll be right here, kid,” Gil shared, putting the chair back to its normal spot to give him some space and sitting down again.

Malcolm closed his eyes and nestled his back into the pillows behind him. The upright position was atypical, but it was the best he could do to cradle his beaten frame.

Knocked out of their well-worn cycle, Malcolm’s thoughts traveled a different direction. Of all the screaming he’d done on a near daily basis, he’d hurt his vocal cords when it counted.

He _could_ defend himself.

He _could_ fight back.

He _could_ live.

He did.

Sleep came easily, his head drifting to the side against the headboard.

Gil laid a fleece blanket over Malcolm, tucking him in to rest. As much as he wanted to offer comfort, Gil avoided touching Malcolm’s purpled cheek, smoothing back his tousled hair, or running a comforting hand down his angry side so he wouldn’t disturb his sleep. His hands reached into his pocket instead and pulled out his phone. _Hold the fort — gonna stay with our boy_ , Gil texted JT.

Malcolm’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. JT — _chin up tough stuff_. Buzzed again. Dani — _text me if you need anything_. Gil turned Malcolm’s phone to silent and retreated back to the chair in the corner.

Stuffed into a chair too small in a loft too large for one, Gil fell asleep watching over his kid, the two of them resting peacefully.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
